Scottish Summer Holiday

The rains awa – its noo so dreich

can we no go down tae the beach

and sit wi blankets roun our knees

to watch the wains play in the breeze

An then we'll ha an ice cream cone

wi chocolate flake an sprinkles oan

And ma will smile and she will say

This is what maks a holiday

An then its fish suppers all aroun

in ketchup and vinegar drownd

an we eat em shelterin in the door

So the wind cannae chill the chips no more

Tha Anchor

By John Butterfield

My life depends on ironwork, anvil forged

in nocturnal sea loch swell.

Wind: gale force eight.

The tempest howls; the rigging rings.

Sea state: rough.

The yacht rocks with violent swings

Visibility: poor.

Low cloud; the rain lashes; splashes.

Outlook: deteriorating

All is wild, disturbed and crashes

Far beneath angry black the barb bites

sludge, slime, weed and shale.

In my bunk, cosy, comfortable

sleep amid the ferocious gale.

Trusting the strength of every link

and the weight embedded deep below.